Eva (44 page)

There had been no way he could explain his conflicting behavior except by telling her the truth.

“Look, Ilse,” he said earnestly, “please understand. I know you were horrified by what you saw at the atrocity screening, that you were appalled when you thought
I
had been part of it. I assured you, I had not, and you believed me—until you heard me admit such actions to that SS officer in Memmingen. Then you loathed me. For being what I admitted to being. And for lying to you. But now you know. I did
not
lie to you. I
do
abhor the horrors that went on in those camps. But I
had
to make that SS officer believe I was part of it. Or I would have been killed. And very likely you, as well. Please understand.”

Ilse made no reply. She did not move.

“I cannot tell you any details of what my mission is,” he continued. “The knowledge would be too dangerous for you to have. Only this. The operation I am part of is directed against the very forces both you and I abhor. Against the evil that destroyed your country and so many of its people. Against those who would perpetuate it. They cannot be allowed to do so.”

“And what now, Rudi—if that is your name?” she whispered bitterly. “What now, that you have told
me
of this mission? Me. A German. The daughter of someone who took a very big part in everything you wish to destroy.” There was a catch in her voice, but she went on. “What will you do now? Will you have to—to kill me? To safeguard your secret? Your operation?” She nodded, her eyes bright with unshed tears. “You will, is that not true?”

He stared at her. My God! he thought. She would think that. He was shocked that the idea had not entered his own mind. It was logical. He suddenly realized that his feelings for the girl effectively had blocked the thought. Kill her? To keep her from talking? He knew he could not. His thoughts raced. He would have to trust her. And equally important, she would have to trust him. Now. And hereafter.

How?

“Ilse,” he said quietly, “you are right. It would be the easy way out for me. If. If I were just like those I consider my adversaries. But I am not.”

He paused. His eyes bored into hers. “There is one way I can win your trust, Ilse. Only one way. I will place
my
life in your hands. Right now. I will leave you here. Alone. For fifteen minutes.” He took her gently by the shoulders. “Think of what I have said. What we both believe in. What we have meant to each other—however briefly. What it might mean if the evil of this world remains unchained.” He straightened up. “And if you choose to denounce me to the
Achse,
that will be your decision. If not, I will know you trust me, as I trust you.”

Abruptly he turned away from her. He walked to the window, opened it, and climbed out into the garden below.

The shadows were deeper and longer among the trees and shrubs. Woody knew his heart was racing in agitation. He could feel it in his throat. He sat down and leaned against a tree. Had he done the right thing? What the hell else could he have done? Shit! He could chuck the whole damned thing. Right now. Take off like a thief in the night and let the damned Krauts do what the hell they wanted to do. All he’d have to do was get to the nearest US Army unit, and he’d be home free.

Even as he allowed himself the luxury of his thoughts, he knew he’d stay in the damned garden, and return to Ilse.

And—to what?

Would she give him away? He thought not.

He could be wrong.

He stood up, too restless to sit. He walked over to the bushes where he’d dumped the SS officer. The man was gone. Back with his friends nursing the bump on his head and trying to explain it away, no doubt.

He looked at his watch. It was difficult to get enough light. Six minutes to go.

What would they do to him, if Ilse blew the whistle on him? They would have to kill him, of course. Unless he could kill them first. He felt for his gun. He carried it in the small of his back. My Dick Tracy comforter, he thought mirthlessly. What if he did do a Prune Face? What if he did cut out. Aborted the damned mission?

What if Ilse did trust him? What would they do to her, if he disappeared?

Again he looked at his watch. Three minutes. He stepped out on the path. He looked toward the window to his room. It was dark. Slowly he walked toward it.

The window was still open, and he climbed in. He looked toward the bed. Ilse was not there.

Suddenly the light went on in the room, a soft glow from a single bulb in a floor lamp. Woody whirled at the sound of the switch.

At the door stood Ilse—and the
Achse
agent,
Signor
Luigi Bazzano.

T
HE ITALIAN SCOWLED AT WOODY.
“I told you,
Signore,
to remain in your room.” He sounded aggrieved. “It is not safe for you to wander around in the garden.”

“I could not sleep,” Woody said testily. He threw a quick glance at Ilse. She looked noncommittal. “I needed some fresh air,” he finished.

Again he glanced at Ilse. She stood motionless, staring at nothing, her face pale and pinched. He was bursting to talk to her. Why was the
Achse
agent there? What had she told him? Imperceptibly he backed away. From both of them. To give himself room—if he had to act.

Bazzano looked from one to the other. “Please,” he said. He spread his hands in an imploring gesture. “I must ask you to come with me.
Per favore, Signore.”

“Why?” Woody asked sharply. He put his right hand on his hip. He knew he could draw his gun in an instant. “Why?” he repeated.

The Italian help up a hand. “
Calma, Signore!
There has been a—disturbing incident,” he explained. “One of our guests was attacked. He apparently heard someone trying to break into a ground floor room. When he went to investigate, he was struck on the head.” He patted himself on the top of his head. “His skull may be cracked.”

“Who did it?” Woody asked.

The innkeeper shrugged elaborately. “I do not know,” he said.

“When did it happen?”

“Less than an hour ago.”

“I see,” Woody said tartly. “And what has that to do with us?”

Bazzano looked anxiously at the two of them. “
Molto, Signore,”
he blurted out. “Very much! There may be a prowler around.
Un ladro
—a robber—perhaps. You may not be safe in this room.
I
will take you to a place where you
will
be safe.” He drew himself up and pounded his chest. “Your safety is my duty,
Signore!”

“Very well,” Woody said. “We will get our things together.” He looked at Ilse. She met his gaze, her eyes veiled. “Ilse?” he said.

She nodded. “I will get ready,” she said tonelessly.

The room the innkeeper took them to was in the basement. It had no windows, but a small grated ventilation shaft. It was spartan, with two cots and a couple of straight-backed chairs. The Italian showed them a heavy dead bolt on the inside of the door. “When I leave,” he said. “Bar the door. Open to no one but me.
Capisce?”

Woody nodded. “And when will you come for us,
Signor
Bazzano,” he asked. “When will we be able to continue our journey?”

“In a few hours,” the Italian said quickly. “Very soon,
Signore.
About eight in the morning.” He bobbed his head, and ducked out the door.

Woody frowned after him. Automatically he tried the door. It was unlocked. He felt uneasy. He did not like the sudden shifty look in the man’s close-set eyes, and the way his tongue had flitted out to wet his fleshy lips.

He dismissed it. He could do nothing now, but be on the alert. He turned to Ilse. She was watching him. He went up to her.

“Thank you,” he said softly.

Her huge eyes were unnaturally bright as she looked up at him. “I—thought about what you said,” she whispered haltingly. “Much of it is true. There has been a terrible evil among us.” She gave a little sob. “Perhaps—perhaps I can make up a little for it. For what my mother . . .” Her voice broke.

“Your mother . . .” Woody began.

She interrupted him. “I know about my mother,” she breathed in bleak defiance.

He took her shoulders in his hands. A gentle, unconscious gesture of support. “Knowing and accepting are two entirely different things,” he said quietly. “It is sometimes difficult to know—it is always more difficult to accept.” He looked down into her upturned face, torn by the look of anguish he saw in it. “You must learn to do that, Ilse. Accept what your mother had become in the course of serving a brutal, inhuman master. Accept that it has absolutely nothing to do with you. You bear no guilt. No shame.”

The tears welled in her haunted eyes, clear drops of grief that caught the light and spilled it down her cheeks. Slowly she crept into his arms and laid her head on his chest. She wept silently.

He stroked her short, tousled hair and buried his face in it.

“Hold me,” she whispered. “I am so alone . . .”

She sobbed.

He held her tight.

“You are wrong,” he said softly.

SS Sturmbannführer
Oskar Strelitz looked up as Bazzano entered the room.

“Well?” he snapped.

Bazzano sighed. “It is done,” he said. “They are safely in the basement room.” He glowered sullenly at the German. “As you requested.”

“Perhaps it would be best if we clarified one thing, Bazzano,” Strelitz said coldly, his arctic eyes impaling the Italian. “I do not make requests. I give orders. Orders that will be obeyed. By you.”

“I am not marching in the German army,” Bazzano protested.

“You are in the pay of the
Brüderschaft,”
Strelitz countered acidly. “You will do as
they
order. As
I
order. Is that fully understood?”

“It will be much of an expense,” Bazzano complained. “It is not within the functions of the
Anlaufstelle.
I do not have such funds.”

“You will be adequately compensated,” Strelitz snapped contemptuously.

Bazzano licked his lips. “As long as that is understood,” he shrugged.

“The man, Diehl, who calls himself Bauhacker, and the woman with him, Ilse Gessner,
must
be eliminated,” Strelitz said. He glared at the agent. “I agreed not to take care of the matter myself. Here. Now. Because it might compromise your
Anlaufstelle
and your operation. But only because you, Bazzano, assured me the mission would be carried out once they left here on their way to the
Anlaufstelle
in Bolzano.”

The innkeeper nodded vigorously. “My cousin, Pietro, he will take care of them,” he said. “They will not reach Bolzano. I, Luigi Bazzano, guarantee it!”

“Indeed you do,” Strelitz said coldly. “With your life.” He scowled at the Italian. “That attack on the SS officer. Have you any further information?” he asked.

Bazzano shrugged. He gave a sour thought to the painstaking justification he had had to give his SS guests for having Jews at the inn. Protection, he had pleaded. Protection for the important
Achse
travelers. Anyone who might come looking for SS fugitives would be shown the Jews. The SS men had accepted his explanation. Grudgingly. But then—why not? Any time a Jew could be used for the benefit of an SS man, use him. He eyed Strelitz. “No,
Signor ufficiale,”
he answered. “Only what the man told us.”

“Could Bauhacker, Diehl, have been responsible?”

Again Bazzano shrugged, his palms turned up. “It is possible. It is not for one to know. It is also possible it could have been another guest here. It is even possible that the SS man told us the truth. There are all sorts of
delinquenti
around these days.”

He shuffled his feet. He gave Strelitz a calculating, sidelong glance. “There is—another matter,” he said. “It is, perhaps, of interest to you.”

“What is?” Strelitz snapped impatiently.

“The other couple here,” Bazzano said. “She is the pregnant one.”

Strelitz looked sharply at the Italian. “What about them?”

“The young man,” Bazzano explained, “he is much worried. He worries that his woman may not be able to endure the strain of the traveling to Bari. By the usual
Achse
route. He—he asked me if I could, that is ease their journey. Make it quicker, perhaps? That is what he asked.”

Strelitz fixed him with his hard eyes. If the man did not already have a way to do so and had not seen a possibility to enrich himself in the process, he would not have brought it up, he thought. What did he have in mind? He was curious. If anything
could
be done to ease the trip, and the risks, for
Frau
Eva and her child, it must be done. “Can you?” he asked curtly.

Bazzano nodded—reluctantly. “It is possible,
Signor ufficiale.
But it will cost much money.”

“What have you in mind?”

“My cousin, Mario, he has a boat,” Bazzano said eagerly. “A fine motorboat. He keeps it in Sottomarina. It is a small fishing village south of Venice. In the Golfo di Venezia. I, myself, and my cousin, Pietro, who is a very good driver of automobiles, would take the young people to him. In my own automobile. And he could take them on his fine boat all the way to Bari.” He shrugged regretfully. “But, as I told you, it would be much money. It is a long voyage. Many kilometers. Seven hundred kilometers. More perhaps. Much
benzina
—much gasoline. And many hours. Perhaps thirty.”